


Brace

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Chill, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29191299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hank watches the game.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Brace

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The Gears are doing decent, or at least, better than the last game, but Hank knows better than to get his hopes up. He’s got a six-pack on the table, just waiting for it all to go to hell and him to need a thing to drown his sorrows in. Even Sumo’s left the room in anticipation—he must know it’s been a shit season. 

Hank’s not exactly sitting on tender hooks anymore. He’s not sitting at all. It was a busy day, from too much inane paperwork to another lecture from Jeffrey to chasing a too-athletic suspect down. It’s left him exhausted, just barely awake enough to keep his eyes open. He’s sprawled out on the living room couch like it’s his bed, even sporting a pillow from the bedroom, lying on his side but ready to roll over the second his boys drop the ball. Figuratively. But they’ve been doing it literally all game. Hell, in his prime, he played better than they’ve been doing lately, and he wasn’t even good enough to get on his college’s team.

Of course, things were different back then. There weren’t any android coaches or players or special rules. It was a simpler time. He used to think it was a better one. 

Then Connor wanders into the room, and it reminds Hank that not _everything’s_ total shit. 

At least Connor’s learned not to stand in front of the television anymore. He hovers politely by the end of the coffee table, staring down at the human he’s set up camp with, and Hank has the decency to be mildly embarrassed—Connor had the exact same day, just as difficult and tireless, and he still looks like an angel in a pretty suit. He’s even brushed his hair back into place and re-fastened his tie from where the suspect grabbed it. Hank’s stripped down to a sweat-stained T-shirt and boxers. His beard’s getting out of control again. His breath smells stale, even to him, and he feels like he’s somehow _gained_ weight recently, even though Connor’s been watching his calories. 

Connor blessedly doesn’t say anything about it. He doesn’t even pester Hank to have a proper dinner—something they both missed. But it’s almost eleven. Hank would be in bed if he didn’t have to watch the game—he already missed the live show, and if he goes in to work tomorrow without catching up, Reed’ll definitely spoil the score. 

Connor used to do that, but he doesn’t anymore. He’s much easier to deal with, though just as much of an eager puppy, every bit as endearing and difficult and too perfect to put up with. It’s a wonder he’s not already in his favourite corner of Hank’s bedroom, charging up for tomorrow. 

He can do that without Hank. Hank stumbling in later and toggling the lights and loudly moving doors and running water through the pipes won’t disturb him. Sometimes it seems like he waits for Hank’s company anyway. He asks, “May I lie with you, Hank?”

Colour fills Hank’s cheeks, even though he knows Connor means it innocently. He doesn’t let Hank engage in strenuous activity on days where he’s already been run ragged. He keeps his eyes on the television, even though Connor’s always a tempting focal point. He grunts, “Game’s still going.”

“I’m aware of that. I mean right where you are.”

“On the couch?” Hank does look over then, face scrunched up—Connor’s supposed to have that fancy pre-construction software, supposed to know measurements and dimensions with a simple glance, so he should know that there’s no room. “What, you want me to sit up?” He’s not _quite_ willing to do that, although there is something nice about sitting next to Connor, especially when Connor starts engaging ‘couple subroutines’ and rests on him.

“No, I’d like to spoon you.”

“You’re... serious.”

“Yes. I believe I can fit into the space between you and the backrest that’s currently unoccupied without pushing you out any further.”

Hank doesn’t believe that at all. But Connor looks so earnest and confident, and Hank would be lying if he said he doesn’t like the feeling of Connor cocooned around him. More often than not, he’s the big spoon in bed. Connor seems perfectly happy with either arrangement. 

Hank begrudgingly grants, “Sure.”

Connor immediately moves. He comes right to the edge of the couch and climbs over the armrest, practically falling into place—right between Hank and the couch. He shouldn’t fit, but somehow does—Hank can feel the sudden pressure against his back but isn’t forced forward. Then one of Connor’s arms is squirming underneath him, the other draping over his waist. They meet in the middle, hands flat against his chest, lightly holding onto his baggy shirt. He can feel Connor’s simulated breath against his neck and the scratch of Connor’s suit against his bare legs. Connor’s just as warm as usual—a modern mystery Hank’s never figured out. Connor’s strong and sturdy, and yet so much softer than any human; his chin’s like velvet against Hank’s shoulder. 

For the first few seconds, Hank’s incredibly self-conscious. Hank’s body was half-asleep, but now he’s hyper aware of it—aware of every little place that Connor’s touching and the tingling spots where he isn’t. Feeling tight himself, Hank mutters, “Can you even breathe back there?”

“I don’t need to breathe.”

“Right.” He knew that. Knows that. Is slowly starting to melt back into being comfortable, because Connor’s lightly stroking him and nuzzling into him, affectionate and sweet, like Sumo used to be before the first few growth spurts and adulthood turned him lazy. Hank still loves him. Hank didn’t think he could love an android too, but he knows that wall’s coming down fast.

Connor breaks him down in minutes, until he’s even more comfortable than when he started. The couch cushions don’t feel as roomy, but he’s got a safety device holding him back from rolling off. He’s got his own personal heater and that fleeting feeling of _togetherness_ he thought he’d forever lost in the divorce.

Connor shouldn’t register feelings like that. Hank can’t figure out what he’s getting out of this. As the Gears get the ball, Hank reasons, “You can’t see the TV.”

“I don’t need to.” Connor gives it up as easily as breathing. “I just... wanted to hold you.” The pregnant pause is a sign of deviancy, but not as big as the longing in his tone. He really is a piece of work. Like no other android—and no other human either. 

Hank’s hand shifts to cover Connor’s. He strokes it absent mindedly as the Gears score from halfway across the court. It’s like Connor’s a good luck charm, and Hank knows damn well he’s lucky.


End file.
